Triptych
by Dicere
Summary: She blames her pride for her fall. He blames his cowardice for his need. And the watcher sees two fools.
1. She blames her pride

A/N.  For once a drabble inspired not by writer's block, but by sheer procrastination.  What can I say except: my mind wanted to go off and play a bit…

Disclaimer: Me own this?  I own two cats and a twenty year old car.  Nothing else.  (Actually, I think the cats own me…)  Characters and world are all J.K. Rowlings'.

I have never been certain when it was that I began to notice him more than any of the others.  It had to be some time in his seventh year, that much is sure; but, even though I have thought and rethought that year so many times, I could never fix an actual point.

Until that seventh year however, he was to me simply… one of the Weasley boys.  Red-haired, freckled, and seemingly incapable of mastering the higher principles of Transfiguration needed to pass his NEWTs.  So, worried, he asked me for private tutoring, and I accepted.

I suppose it had to be because of those private sessions that things began to change.  I have never made the mistake again.

He was – so down to earth.  So gentle, yet so firm. Certain and accepting of his duty to his family, his friends, and the world around him; yet so completely unassuming.    I think perhaps, after years of working with some of the brightest and most convoluted minds of the wizarding community, his very honesty and simplicity of character was a great relief to me.

That isn't to imply he was unintelligent – nothing could be further from the truth.  But he always preferred more to work with his hands than with his mind.  His favorite class was Care of Magical Creatures and Professor Kettleburn could, with very little encouragement, rave for hours about his skill and enthusiasm.

Other staff told me that I encouraged the man in this.  I thought, at the time, they were raving – in quite a different sense than Kettleburn.  Looking back, years later, it is possible they had a point.  But at least I can swear that at the time it was innocently meant.

The private sessions led inevitably to a lapse in formality; his comments were pithy and wise, and I enjoyed his company – so much so I began to invite him to private teas.  He always accepted, and gladly so; and even then I wondered why.  He was a popular person, with many friends, so why did he always say yes to tea with his teacher?  And why always so happily? It was not an attempt to curry favour, he was much too straightforward for that.  I wondered why… but the wondering did not stop me from inviting him.  And it did not stop us both from laughing together, talking together, being silent together, for hours at a time.  We both grew very adept at creating fresh pots of tea during that year.

I do, however, vividly recall when I realised what had happened.  It was nearly the end of the school year, at the end of a class where nearly everything had gone wrong.  As the students were finally filing out he lifted up his head, looked at me, and smiled.

And I burned.

After they – he – had gone I sank down on my desk, grateful as never before for that ten-minute break between classes.  I had ten minutes in which to pick up the pieces of my life, examine them carefully, and make myself whole.

Oh, it happens.  We all knew it could happen.  We are human, after all; and just as students can wish for the unattainable so can we as their teachers.  Yet for us there is far greater danger in such fantasies; because we, with our greater experience, can in fact twist and use their innocent desires and make fantasy reality.  But it would be a dark reality, which never ends in anything other than tears and damaged souls.

Yet, for all that, it happens.  To even the wisest.  No one is immune.

But it had never happened to me.  To me, they were all always my children, the only ones I would ever have.  I had thought myself immune from the danger and so, in my pride, had made my student my friend.  From friend to lover is a much smaller step.

There had been nothing in his smile but friendship.  The desire, I knew, burned only on my side; even then I was too old not to know the truth of it.  Yet it must be stopped, for my own peace of mind, and eventually, I told myself, for his.

So the invitations to tea stopped, and the private lessons became more formal than before.  And if, in the midnight privacy of my rooms, I wrung my hands at the confusion and hurt that plainly printed itself on that expressive face, who did that pain but myself?

The class graduated and left Hogwarts forever, as they always do; and I breathed a long sigh of what I told myself firmly was relief.

**

And now… he is a member of the Order, as am I.  He too has risked his life in this fight, as I have.  He is older, yet still gentle, still reassuringly firm in his resolve.  He is loved and trusted by all, and so rightly so.

Yet when I look at him a flash of hurt still shows in his eyes and I am forced to look away.

I wronged him by ever opening the door.  My foolishness, my pride, my belief that I was above such things as need, has damaged him.  I will not hurt him more by seeking to make amends just to salve my… heart.


	2. He blames his cowardice

She hasn't changed at all.  It's been years, but she is still exactly the same as I always picture her.  Dark hair, bright eyes, and as slender as a willow.

She's over there now, discussing something with Moody.  I can hear the rise and fall of her voice, but not the actual conversation.  I want to go over there to them, but I know if I did, she would, in just a few minutes, find an excuse to move away.  She always does.

What was it that went wrong?  But I've asked myself that question for far too long to expect an answer to come to me.  Yet – and now I'm asking it again.

There's only one way know for certain; go and ask her.  And, if I had any real courage, I would.  But it isn't that I lack the courage to have the question finally answered; what I fear instead is the look on her face when she realises the question still matters to me so much.  Even after all these years.

She is so strong herself, so wise, but with all her wisdom she wouldn't understand this weakness in me.  That she is the weakness in me.

I lack her indomitable strength… because I cannot bear that she would think less of me.  Less of me than she already does, at least.  And given that she won't spend more than a few minutes in any conversation with me, it's pretty clear she doesn't think much of me at all.

I should let it go.  It would be better by far for me and for her to just forget the whole thing.  Except I won't.

I've dated other girls, girls my own age, girls with curling blonde hair, carefully windswept red hair… and we've joked and chattered, and messed about; but it never lasts even a month.  It is never their fault: they are smart and sweet and pretty.  The fault is in me.

My fault that their conversation jars on my ears.  My fault that the laughter sounds fake.  I keep hearing instead conversations which opened my mind to so many things, over endless cups of tea.  And the only laughter I seem to feel is real is a warm low laugh which used to prickle my skin.

It's so stupid to expect girls my own age to match the experience of a woman decades older, who has spent her life in study and learning.  I knew I wasn't being fair in judging them at all, let alone judging them against her.  If I gave it more effort, the girl and I could grow together, I told myself.  So I would try.

… But when, even at the most intimate moments, I could only see dark hair in a strict bun, softly gleaming in the firelight, could only hear her laughter in my ears, I had to stop, and make the age old speech.  "It isn't you – it's me…"  I meant it, but they never understood it.  How could they?  I could have said, perhaps, that they "just weren't my type", which is hateful anyway; but there is no type, there is just her, and she is unique.

I hated those conversations, hurting them, confusing them, that though they were lovely people I just couldn't…  I was blamed and rightly so, for not giving them the chance they seemed to want.  Yet I had to stop seeing them.  It's never fair to use someone like that.

And when, in my dreams, I found myself holding a woman as slender as a willow in my arms, felt her long dark hair fall like silk over my hands, saw her bright eyes looking deeply into mine, I gave up dating altogether.  I can't find any interest in someone when I know that I will never feel that low warm laugh breathed against my lips.

Maybe, someday, when I've gotten her out of my blood, perhaps then I could try again, without this feeling of dreading certain failure ahead.

But then I see her at these meetings, and in my glimpses of her I can see she hasn't changed at all…  And I wonder how I could even contemplate her being out of my blood when it is so clear, with every one of my senses so attuned to her, that she is my blood, every part of it.

I'd have to spill out every last drop to be rid of this need.  God help us, for in this fight, I guess that's quite likely.  But I'm peripheral to the war, only occasionally of any real use.  She is as central to it, with her abilities and knowledge, as Dumbledore, or even Harry, in her own way.

I tell myself, when I worry about a plan, that my concern for her is because of her value to the Order.  I'm lying through my teeth.  My prayers are for her safety, because if anything were to happen to her I would go mad.  I pray to whatever gods there are to keep her safe, because I value my own sanity.  It comes down to selfishness, in the end.

And it is cowardice too, it is a boyhood desire I haven't the courage and the selflessness to put away… I am a coward, doubly damned for not facing the truth and for daring, in those dreams that I fear and live for, to fulfil a desire that is so absolutely unreturned.

And she is still as slender as a willow, with dark hair, and bright eyes.


	3. The watcher sees two fools

And there they go again.  He keeps looking her way with – good grief – adoration shining blatantly from his eyes.  I'll give her credit for not being as obvious about it – she's only looked in his direction once or twice, and she's damned good at hiding her feelings, but still…

Oh, please.  Has everyone in the room been struck down by some form of selective blindness?  And it is this group of people, who clearly can't see what is so utterly obvious under their very noses, to which I am sworn to help in order to defeat the Dark Lord.  Merlin, help us all.

Well… I suppose I can't claim such a great deal of superiority at that.  I knew years ago how things stood between those two.

I'd wanted a word with McGonagall about a detention she'd given one of my Slytherins, and so, not wanting to bother walking up to her rooms (and really looking forward to a face-to-face argument about the matter), I stuck my head into the flames.

And there she was, having tea in her rooms with a student.  Not so unexpected – we all do it, at times when it's necessary.  Even I, though I try everything I can before things get to that stage.  No… what was unexpected was the silence.

A warm, comfortable silence, while they both watched each other without awkwardness, taking occasional sips of that revolting brew McGonagall tries to call tea and the rest of the staff refer to as liquid tar.  Then, for no apparent reason, they both burst into laughter, and began chatting idly about Africa.

I have no idea what led the course of their conversation to Africa, nor what they found so interesting about it, because it was at that point I withdrew my still unnoticed head from McGonagall's fire and sat down in my own study to think.

Minerva McGonagall… and a student.  Oh, my.  The perfect teacher slips up at last.

Oh, the scene was completely innocent; of course it was!  It was Minerva McGonagall after all, Gryffindor par excellence, whom I'd watched.  But the shared silence had spoken volumes; silence usually speaks with a truer voice than words.  It bespoke an ease with each other that was impossible in a student/teacher relationship.   It was an intimate silence, shared only by two friends who know each other too well to need to speak to share their thoughts.  I wouldn't know this from my own experience, of course…

But the laughter.  The laughter meant more than friendship, even if those two didn't know it themselves yet.  In that laughter was pure happiness and a deep unguarded pleasure in the other's company.  It lasted only for a moment, but I can still hear it whenever I think back on that little tête-à-tête, because I have never heard Minerva McGonagall laugh like that, before or since.

My life has been spent observing relationships.  As a spy, it has been the ability to judge them, in a moment, which has kept me alive.  I knew more of what they felt for each other than they did, then.

And now, a decade or so on, here we all are, and they know now what I knew so clearly then.  And he is still watching her.

I'll give you this, Minerva – when you opened your heart to him, he must have found in it something remarkable.

It would be easier for him if you were a Muggle; you'd have aged ten years at least, and even adolescent yearning, which can overcome the most obvious obstacles in its stubborn desire, does tend to burn itself out at the approach of wrinkles on the adored face.  But you are a witch, and the most powerful one of my acquaintance – you'll continue looking forty for decades yet.  You and Albus will probably outlive us all.

Much harder for the boy to get over you when you always look as you did when he first fell in love with you.  Of course, why he fell in love with you in the first place, with your spectacles and your bun and your absolute, uncompromising inflexibility, is a question I don't want answered, thank you so much.

Even a passing thought about Albus seems to draw the man, because he's at my side.  I look up.

"Severus," he starts to say, looking at me.  Then suddenly he stops mid-word, turning to watch the both of you.

Shit.  Leglimancer.  I've got to stop feeling – but it's too late.  He's seen.

Despite the shock, I'm watching his face with – I admit – curiosity.  Just what is it you have meant to him all these years, Minerva McGonagall?

I see a world of hurt bloom in those blue eyes – and I am answered.  Now I know for certain.

You fool – and I don't care whether he dredges the words from my mind.  What did you expect?  That she would simply continue to follow you blindly as she has for years, never daring to come too close to you?

That she would remain forever content with the occasional shared smile, glances of recognition, the constantly proffered sweets?  While you kept working to save the world, she would keep working with you, naturally putting her heart safely away until the right time came for you to take it as yours?

'Newsflash', Headmaster; the Muggles do have some useful and pungent phrases.  The right time never comes.  For anyone, even you.  And while you were busy working to save the world, and telling yourself there would be time, sometime… things happened in that time you never foresaw, even with all your careful planning.

Don't mind too much, though; little has changed, really.  She will still be there, your loyal lieutenant, through all the battles that are to come.  She will, in times of peace, still be your dearest friend, and you hers.  But that other door is now closed forever.  She's locked it against him, but no one else has a chance of opening it.  She's of the kind who give their hearts once, and once only.  In that way, if in no other, she and I are alike.

Ironic; that when the Ice Queen's heart was finally melted, it was not through the power of the greatest sorcerer in the world.  It was done by a simple seventeen year old boy with hair like the sun, who brought her nothing but the simple gifts of shared laughter, an interest in the small details of her daily life… and a devotion which still shines hopelessly in his eyes, some ten years on.

He's stopped looking at them; now he's looking at the floor instead.

How very unSlytherin of you, Minerva, not to wait for the prize.  And how typically Gryffindor to refuse what the boy is offering you so plainly, while you are both still alive to have some kind of… happiness, or whatever it is.  You are foolish in both ways.

I cannot say whether I respect you more or less now.

He's looking at me again now.  His eyes are guarded.  I have no idea if he has heard my thoughts, but I know we will never speak of it aloud.

"I believe it is time to bring this meeting to a close, Severus."

I nod, but he's already moving away.  I gaze at the boy who is facing Albus now as he dismisses them.  He's giving her one last look, trying to steal enough glimpses to last him until the next meeting, whenever it will be.  And her back is turned to him, but I can see her eyes.  Yes - there is pain there, hidden, but deep.  She knows he is looking at her.  You're a fool, Minerva.  You and Albus both, for not taking what is there while you still can.

I continue to watch him as he leaves.  He is the one for whom I have sympathy, for what little such an acrid emotion is ever worth.  I tired of seeing innocents tortured when I was still a Death Eater.  But there is nothing I can do for you, Charlie Weasley.  I wish I could tell you that someday you'll get over it.

But you won't.

****

Fin

*******************

A/N.  So… I'd imagine that it's time to answer the question of "What the hell were you thinking, pairing Minerva McGonagall and, of all people, Charlie Weasley?"

Honestly – absolutely no idea, really.  It was the result of reading in GoF that Charlie failed his Apparition license the first time, I think.  I thought, "Silly sod.  Should've asked for private lessons."  Who would he have asked them from?  Professor McGonagall, I supposed; I've no idea who actually teaches Apparition…  So, my brain in an angsty mood from the last chapter of ATB, I started scribbling then and there at the coffee shop.  (Yep, I'm one of those sad people who carry a notepad and pen with her everywhere.)

  And this was the result.  One of those pieces that pops into your head complete from start to finish, like a crystal figure rather than the plastic plotlines which I usually get hit with.  As ever, it was better in my head than what finally came out.

A triptych, by the way, is a piece of art (usually religious in nature) which consist of three paintings on three hinged wood panels.  The title hit me halfway through writing Minerva's contribution, and then I knew precisely how it was to go.  Three people, their stories… and the third person is not really Snape at all, is it?

I'd be very interested in hearing your views.  (God, soliciting for reviews – how pathetic is that!)  Mostly because this is the first time I've tried to write in the first person, and I'd be curious to know if you feel I've gotten the voices even close to the characters as you see them.  But also because this story and Light Tempted are the two that come closest to hitting the mark as I saw it in my head, so knowing if there is something I've stuffed in them is more important.

Liz thought the Weasley in question could be Arthur; it would certainly fit better age-wise, and there is a surprisingly long period between the ages of Charlie and Percy.  But I couldn't do it.  I can't write, even in fiction, about a man even contemplating adultery.  Okay, so I'm as weird as all-get-out, but… I just couldn't.  My mind did a total block on it when I tried to make the second person Arthur.  Charlie was the original character I thought of, and when I switched my focus back to him, everything just poured out. 

 Besides, witches and wizards live longer, and age slower, as evidenced by Dumbledore.  At 150, he shouldn't be breathing without medical apparatus and his brain would be the consistency of warm oatmeal; instead he's strong, powerful, and the only evidence of age is a few lines and a long white beard and hair.   So really, the squick factor people keep talking about when it comes to these characters is purely perception based on Maggie Smith playing Minerva in the movies.  (Mind you, there isn't another actress in the world I would want playing her!  Dame Maggie is brilliant in every role she's ever undertaken.)  But when I picture Minerva-in-the-books, it isn't a seventy-year-old woman I see.  I see a woman who looks about forty, who happens to be seventy-ish, and who, for all we know, could be expecting a life span of two hundred years or so.

Except for Madam Pomfrey's remark about "four Stunners to her chest – at her age!"  But I've always put that down to a little bit of catty jealousy.

So, if you have had the patience to read so far; please, tell me what you think.


End file.
